Marielle

by Sylvia Halliday

  There was a movement beside her. André had turned and was leaning on one elbow, looking down at her. In the gloom she could just make out the outline of his face.

  “Are you awake, Marielle?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she murmured, reaching up her hand to stroke his cheek. “Did I wake you?”

  “No,” he said hoarsely, and there was a ragged edge in his voice. “I have been lying here thinking.” He laughed harshly. “The dark of night is not a good time to think—there are too many goblins in the shadows!”

  “André! My love!” she said, alarmed. “What is it?”

  For answer, he held her tightly in his arms, and when he spoke, there was despair in his voice.

  “Too many days! Too many days have passed! Richelieu will not come, something has happened, we are abandoned here!”

  “Ah, no, André, it is not so,” she soothed. “The King’s army will come. As you said, it is just the goblins of the night.”

  Now it was she who was the strong parent, comforting and reassuring. She pulled his head down to her bosom, stroking his forehead, murmuring soft words to still his fears. In a while, he raised his head to her face and kissed her gently on the lips. Her mantle had fallen back, and now he kissed the softness of her neck, his lips moving lightly over her naked skin like the wings of a butterfly. She felt the warmth of his breath as his lips traveled from her neck down to her bodice, and thence upward again to find her mouth. This time he kissed her fiercely, hungrily, his mouth forcing her lips apart. She felt her senses reeling, her heart pounding as if it would leap from her breast.

  “Marielle!” he breathed, pressing her back against the straw, his hand moving insistently along the length of her body.

  “Ah, no!” she cried, pushing him away and scrambling to her feet. He jumped up and turned her roughly to him, one hand going around her waist, the other behind her head, tangled in her curls. He bent her back across his arm and kissed her passionately, his mouth now hot and determined. Her head was spinning, her breath coming fast and hard. Despite her will, she felt herself softening, melting in his ardent embrace. She could feel his desire, the hardness of him pressing against her body, and she trembled all over.

  “Marielle,” he pleaded hoarsely. “What if the sun should never rise? And we are trapped here—frozen in this moment of time? I would know your sweetness, the beauty of your surrender. I ache to love you beyond mere kisses!”

  His hand caressed her body, sending exquisite shivers through her whole being, as he tried to urge her down onto the straw.

  “Come, my love,” he whispered, “it is dark. Come. Only we two exist in this corner of time.”

  With supreme effort of will, panting with her own suppressed desire, Marielle pushed him away.

  “André!” she sobbed piteously, shrinking back from him. “Nom de Dieu! I cannot! I am not one of your Parisian ladies who can give herself to a man and not fear the wrath of God. As Damnation awaits the sinner, I have sworn to God to keep my purity for the man who is my husband. I beg you, do not ask me to go against my vows! Help me to be strong, André,” she finished miserably.

  She peered at him through the gloom, sensing in his silence the despair and turmoil he must feel. She knew that he wrestled with his conscience against his baser nature, cooling his desire with the greatest effort of will. After a long moment, he turned away, his shoulders sagging in resignation and disappointment. She lifted her hand and tenderly touched his arm.

  “Ah, André,” she whispered softly. “The sun will rise, the dawn will come and with it will come the forces of the King. You’ll see,” she said with simple faith. “I know God could not be so cruel as to give us this wondrous love and then snatch it away.”

  He turned then, and smiled tenderly at the beauty and innocence of her faith. It set her apart from all the women he had known, this sweet crystal purity that shone in her eyes, shaped her every word and action, permeated her very being. He knew, with a certainty that suddenly lifted the weight from his shoulders, that he could never be the one to shatter that crystalline sweetness, no matter his desire. He felt suddenly lighthearted, like a stripling lad smitten by a country shepherdess. He laughed softly, swooped an imaginary hat from his head and bowed low.

  “Mademoiselle, when we are released from these unsavory surroundings, I trust you will allow me to call upon you and press my suit.”

  Marielle smiled and curtsied prettily to him.

  “To what purpose, Monsieur? May a humble country maid inquire as to your intentions and plans?”

  “Certainly!” he said decisively. “I shall marry you, spirit you away to my château and make love to you in every room of Vilmorin!”

  She giggled. “In front of the servants?”

  He nodded confidently. “It will be better recompense than the sous and livres I usually pay them!”

  She threw her arms about his neck, laughing, glad to forget the terrible moments that had passed. He held her tightly and shared her joy.

  Suddenly her laughter caught in her throat and became a sob.

  “Oh, André,” she whispered against his ear, and clung more tightly to his neck. “If this is all we have…if something should happen…will you forgive me? Will you know that I am yours alone, before God, for all eternity?”

  “Hush, hush,” he comforted, stroking her hair gently. “Whatever the day brings, whatever our future is to be, know that I love you beyond measure. As for the rest, I can wait.”

  Chapter Four

  Renard, Marquis de Gravillac, paced the Great Hall of La Forêt. His spurs clanged on the stone floor with every impatient step he took. The early morning sun glinted on the hard steel of the breastplate around his neck and on the fine sword that hung from the buckled harness at his waist. One hand, still gloved, clenched his other leather gauntlet, which he slapped irritably in the palm of his bare hand as he paced. Tall and lean, he moved with the grace of a tiger, each step charged with pent-up power, ready to strike at any moment. More than one woman had found him attractive—dark hair graying at the temples, small pointed beard and trim mustache—but the black eyes that peered out from beneath his heavy lids could glitter cruelly when he was crossed. They flashed now as he turned to Barrault, who sat lolling in a large velvet armchair, seeming indifferent to the other man’s agitated state.

  “I tell you, Barrault,” said Gravillac with a frown, “I care not what the others say. There is no cause for rejoicing at this early date. Richelieu is not a fool! Why would he have sent such a small force against us? There is no sense to it. Surely he knows our strength! If he meant to defeat us he would have sent a larger army. If he wanted to negotiate, why send a force at all? I do not care for it one whit! And there is our ally Vautier already drawing up terms of agreement, conditions for peace. A fat pension for himself, the governorship of a province…Bah! With whom will he negotiate? A King who does not come?”

  “Why disquiet yourself, mon ami?” responded Barrault. “There is time for whatever will be. You rode this morning through the hills. What did you see?”

  “I saw nothing, neither to west nor east, from where I was. But the river bends away to the north, before Digne, where the best crossing would be. If the King should decide to ford the river at that point, we could not see it from here. Devil take Bonfleur! Why will he not send out a small patrol to Digne? I think the man is losing his reason.”

  Barrault rose easily from his chair and poured himself a glass of wine from a carved and gilded pitcher.

  “I begin to wonder the same,” he said thoughtfully. “Ever since the battle, when the musketeers fired on his own townspeople, he has been distant and distracted. Vautier had to see to the burials…Bonfleur found things to do that kept him far from the west wall!”

  “It was a stupid attack,” said de Gravillac contemptuously. “I could not believe my eyes when I saw André du Crillon’s banners above the smoke.”

  “Perhaps the man’s reputation as a great general was unmeri
ted. I’ll warrant the best campaigns he has waged have been in the bedchambers of Fontainebleau! Or so my dear sister would lead me to believe!”

  “Nay,” said de Gravillac, shaking his head. “He was at Pluvinel’s Academy for a time while I was there. I remember his horsemanship did not match mine, but his tactics were brilliant.” He fell silent, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “However,” he mused, “I saw the banners that day of the Chevalier du Trémont. I wonder…”

  “That prancing peacock!” scoffed Barrault. “The last time I was at Court, I had to listen to the King go on at length about his skills and attributes, although the only skill I imagine he would need was the one he brought to his marriage bed with a princess of the blood!”

  “That’s just it!” exclaimed Gravillac. “Why would the King abandon the husband of his cousin? His forces must be on the way to La Forêt!”

  “Perhaps the Italian campaign went badly,” suggested Barrault, “and the King has been delayed. We have had no word from our spies in the Piedmont. Who knows? Maybe Louis has decided to return to Paris!”

  “Nevertheless,” said Gravillac with certainty, “there must have been a plan.”

  “Then ask the man himself,” said Barrault with a shrug. “From what I have been led to believe, du Crillon was taken prisoner and resides at the moment in Bonfleur’s malodorous stable!”

  De Gravillac’s eyes glittered with malice. Motioning to a guard by the door, he whispered his instructions. The guard nodded, and vanished into the corridor, where they could hear him passing on his orders. In a moment, a sweaty laborer in a leather apron appeared, carrying a small brazier on a tripod. Crossing to the large stone fireplace, he scooped up a small spadeful of hot coals, which he placed in the brazier and proceeded to fan with a small bellows. Reaching into his apron, he pulled out a long steel bar with a wooden handle, which he set into the center of the glowing coals.

  “Very soon,” said de Gravillac with determination, “we shall have all the answers we need!”

  Marielle and André were standing quietly at the far wall in the corner of the prison when the huge oak door banged open. They had been uneasily silent all morning. For her part, Marielle found it hard to look at André, reluctant to see into his eyes, fearful of reading reproach written there. She knew that no power on earth could have made her behave any differently last night, but in the light of day she was assailed by doubts that shook her faith. Ah Dieu! Was it more sinful to deny love to someone who loved you with a pure and holy love? All her life, she had toiled by her father’s side, succoring the sick, comforting the needy, feeling God’s approval for the work they did. Was not André’s need as great? Were his wounds not wounds of the soul that needed the healing balm she alone could give? Filled with remorse, she averted her gaze from his eyes.

  As for André, his thoughts had been on the women he had known. There had been one or two who stirred his heart as well as the juices in his body, but they had been brief passions that seared his soul yet left him feeling strangely untouched, with no regrets and no memories. Far too many had been other men’s wives, and he wondered whether he had found them attractive because there had been no real danger in such liaisons. Well, perhaps a small danger! But he had managed to survive the few unavoidable duels with the obligatory drawing of blood (his own or his adversary’s), and the scars that they left were only skin-deep. He had not really believed in his heart that a woman could be faithful—to one man, to her own virtue, to her beliefs. It mattered little. It left him free to live his life, to seek his pleasures where he might, to come and go as he chose. And now this chestnut-haired siren beside him had turned his world upside down. He thought again of the night. Mon Dieu, but he had wanted her! He could have taken her, with or without her consent! More likely with it. He had seduced enough women to know how to soften their resistance. But he had been afraid. Yes, afraid! Frightened of this lovely, vulnerable creature who opened her soul to him, who gave him her heart, without guile, without pretense, and begged him to protect it. He had said he wanted to marry her. A mad, moon-struck thought. Still…

  “André, Comte du Crillon!” He looked up suddenly at the sound of his name. The Captain of the Guard stood before them. “You are to come with me!”

  “No!!” shrieked Marielle, clutching his arm tightly. “You cannot!”

  He wrenched her hand free, swung her around, and shook her by the shoulders roughly, urgently.

  “Listen to me, Marielle!” he said hoarsely, riveting her with his eyes. “Guard yourself well in this place. Do not wait for me! Go when Jacques arrives! Do you understand?”

  She nodded dumbly. He took both her hands in his and pressed them fervently to his lips.

  “Go with God, my love,” he murmured. He turned and strode away with the guards. She raised her hands up to her lips, as if to taste the kiss he had put there, and sank to the floor, wrapping her mantle tightly around her, trying to hold back her tears.

  Renard de Gravillac looked up from the map he had been studying as André was ushered into the Great Hall.

  “Ah! Monsieur le Comte!” he said, bowing with elaborate ceremony. “How good of you to come!”

  André’s eyes were wary as they swept the room, but he nodded gravely to Barrault and Gravillac, and returned their courtesy with the same mocking sincerity.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “such distinguished company! I fear me I have neglected to dress.” He fingered the tattered edge of his shirt. “Dommage! My best lace cuffs, sitting at home at Vilmorin!” He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

  “But then I have heard, my dear Crillon,” said Renard with a smile, “that the laces of Italy are as fine as any from France. Perhaps you should arrange to have some delivered whilst you are here.” And his dark eyes flickered dangerously.

  “An excellent suggestion, Renard. But alas, there is no one in Italy to whom I can send at the moment.” André plucked daintily at a thread on his sleeve. “Besides, who goes to Italy in this damp season? It simply isn’t fashionable, my dear fellow.”

  Gravillac whirled on André with barely controlled fury, his eyes flashing. “The King goes to Italy!” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Ah, then,” said André. His voice was low and seeming at ease, but a cold, hard light shone in his icy eyes. “Shall I have the King fetch you a pair of Italian cuffs as well? But then I’ve heard that you prefer to buy and sell among your Spanish friends!”

  “Enough!!” roared de Gravillac. “I would know when Richelieu and the King arrive, and by what route!”

  “What makes you think they come at all?” laughed André.

  “Come, come, man,” said Barrault nervously. “Do not make things more difficult than they must be! My friend Renard is a gentle man but”—and here he eyed the brazier apprehensively—“he does not like to be thwarted.”

  “Your friend Renard is as gentle as a rattlesnake!” retorted André. “Tell me, de Gravillac, do you still whip your horses and thrash your grooms? You were ever the talk of the Academy!”

  Furious, de Gravillac signaled to the guards, who seized André roughly by his arms and dragged him into a chair, tying his hands behind him with a long cord. His linen shirt had fallen open as they did so, uncovering a portion of his chest. It was to that patch of vulnerable flesh that the man in the leather apron now directed his iron bar, glowing red from the hot coals.

  “The King’s plans!” insisted Renard. “I would know them!”

  André said nothing, but laughed contemptuously. His eyes, cold and filled with hatred, stared unwaveringly at Gravillac. Even when the signal was given and the stench of burning flesh filled the room, his eyes did not flicker, but beads of perspiration broke out on his upper lip. An ugly welt glowed red and charred upon his breastbone.

  He turned slightly to Barrault, his voice still strong and steady.

  “It would seem our friend Renard has not learned manners since our school days,” he said mockingly. “Did you know, Barrault, that th
ey would have thrown him out but for his father’s intervention?”

  Something seemed to explode behind de Gravillac’s eyes. His face contorted with rage, suffused with purple, and he clenched his fists. With a sound that was like the howl of a feral beast he seized the handle of the hot poker and pressed it hard against André’s chest. This time they could hear the flesh sizzle under the brutal assault. André turned his head away and gritted his teeth, his face ashen, trying desperately not to cry out. Barrault, shocked at Renard’s almost uncontrollable frenzy, snatched his arm away with a sudden wrench that sent the hot iron clattering across the stone floor.

  “The plans!” said Gravillac in a strangled voice.

  “Go to the Devil!” said André hoarsely, and fainted.

  “If you kill the man,” burst out Barrault, “we shall have no answers!”

  Gravillac took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to recover his self-control. He poured himself a large goblet of wine, and drank it slowly and steadily as if to ease his nerves. He did not like to be beaten, and it seemed as though he and du Crillon were engaged in a deadly struggle of wills in which André’s cool steadiness would prove the victor. If he killed the man, still he would not break, and suddenly Gravillac knew he wanted to put fear in those icy blue eyes almost more than he wanted the King’s plans. There must be another way!